


The (Biological) Facts

by greywing (ctrlx)



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ctrlx/pseuds/greywing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a scientist, Delphine is a practiced hand at distilling the noise of information into relevant and promising data. (And when it comes to Cosima, sticking to the facts may be the only way to maintain her sanity.) Directly follows 1x07, "Parts Developed in an Unusual Manner."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The (Biological) Facts

**Author's Note:**

> “I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. [...] Oh, like, I have never thought about bisexuality. I mean, for myself, you know. But as a scientist, I know that sexuality is a--is a--is a spectrum. But you know social biases, they, they codify attraction. It’s . . . contrary to the biological facts.” - Delphine, 1x08, “Entangled Bank”

**The (Biological) Facts**

_Subject made a pass at me._

The pen point lingered on the period. It was the latest entry in the private log. Similar succinct declarative sentences preceded it, each passage dated, a collection of observations and notable events stripped to the essential details. 

The bare facts. 

The facts. 

_Bullshit_ , whispered Cosima's voice. 

_The subject's voice_ , Delphine reminded herself. 

Bullshit.

Delphine contemplated what she'd written: _Subject made a pass at me._

She put the pen aside, leaned back in the desk chair, and laughed at herself. 

_Cosima_ had made a pass at her. 

Cosima had _kissed_ her.

Cosima, the subject, had made a pass, a kiss, at her.

_You’re in trouble, Cormier, when even your notes are disingenuous._

Delphine buried her face in her hands. She thought of how the senior monitor personnel had hesitated in his lecture on developing an organic relationship with a subject, casting a furtive glance into her face before adding, “It is a common tactic to engage the subject romantically. This type of relationship allows for greater intimacy and access to the subject. If an agent chooses to pursue this course of action, we encourage and advise them to allow the subject to initiate any first moves, so to speak. But the priority should be ensuring that the subject acts of her own will. Any guidance or direction you provide should afford her the freedom to make her own decisions.”

She hadn’t, at the time, seen the relevance of the advice. Her assignment was to befriend 324B21, not seduce her.

Or be seduced.

Seduction. The notion had not even blipped in her consciousness. There could have been no room for it among the heightened self-awareness, the vigilance of scrutiny, the effort to appear inviting and amiable and authentic and trustworthy. 

The task consumed so much of her focus that she’d had barely enough presence of mind to react. To be charmed. Intrigued. Surprised. Delighted. Even--this was not committed to paper either--a little disappointed. That 324B21, Cosima Niehaus, had turned out to be so ordinarily human. Of just average height. With a(n inconvenient) penchant for tardiness. (Confusingly) Equal parts optimistic and skeptical. Who inhabited an apartment that was, Delphine saw at a glance, ordered chaos (of an unsettled mind).

Who was also expressive, nonconformist, intelligent, friendly, kind, playful, and had so obligingly returned her transcript, agreed to attend Aldous' lecture, and put up no protest to his presence at dinner. 

(Not explicitly, not directly, but now, as she had at the table, Delphine chose not to dwell on the reluctance in Cosima's body language, the flatness of her inflection, how closely her words had sidled up to the truth, made Delphine's heart skip a beat and the laugh she dredged up harsh and insistent.)

Delphine raked her fingers through her hair and hung her head. If she could choose selectively not to see, what might she have missed seeing entirely? 

Had there been signs in Cosima’s behavior? Had Delphine broadcasted signals of . . . interest? Delphine cast her mind back. To the conversations, the looks, the touches. But nothing leapt out at Delphine as anomalous. 

(Easy, perhaps, almost natural--startlingly, pleasantly--but not surpassing platonic. From the hesitant tap on her arm of a stranger interrupting a private moment. To a warm hand slipped into hers, the firm handshake of a new acquaintance. A burgeoning colleague's cold hand, chilled from the winter bite, tightening around hers reflexively as Delphine tugged to direct them toward seats. The opposite hand, of a conspirator, grasping at hers, dragging Delphine away from one mischief to the next. Cool cheeks against hers, first one then the other, Delphine’s lips barely finding purchase. A common, everyday farewell to bestow upon a friend in the brave new world.)

And if, maybe-- _be honest_ \--there had been a thrill that leapt from the points of contact between them and electrified Delphine's nerves, if there had been eagerness or excitement transmitted from her skin to Cosima's, the sentiments escaped unbidden from a place of wonder.

At the opportunity to touch the subject. In the flesh. Fully realized. Autonomous. Real. A story first revealed in the language of nucleotides, chemical compounds and reactions, given a face, a voice, an utterly different type of mystery to discover and unravel. How could Delphine not be fascinated, curious?

But no more than that. Not on her part. Surely.

(Yet how easily the smile had come to her lips when Cosima [ _the subject_ ] had first frankly, unabashedly complimented her. How startled she’d been at the sight of her hostess through the door, not ready, not fully dressed[, not embarrassed]. How strange yet familiar to slip into Cosima's living space, to read the decor in the woman and the woman in the decor: a clone and her environment, a scholar and her study, a woman and her boudoir.)

Delphine had not bargained on the vanity, the self-possession. Just as she’d been unprepared for the animation in those keen brown eyes. The lack of self-consciousness in that toothy smile. The texture and timbre of that impish voice. The softness of those lips.

_"Don’t you think--it’s time we admit what this is really about?"_

To Delphine's lips had clung a hint of red wine that she had licked away as she’d trudged down the hall, away from the scene. Sweetness and tannins blossoming on her tongue, lighting up neural pathways through her darkened mind to the full realization of what had just transpired. 

Cosima had kissed her.

(Delphine had kissed her back.)

No. Not kissed. Reacted. Instinctively. Unthinkingly. Without reason. Without awareness. 

(However there had been no accusation, but an invitation--and then Cosima's lips against hers. In answer and gentle inquiry. To the original question. As a different question altogether.) 

Delphine had been a step behind, incapable of thought, of comprehension, from the moment Cosima's words had sent a cold wash down her spine, catecholamines flooding her system, stripping away all sense, turning muscles to jelly.

(No.)

She should have been ready, with a protest of innocence, an excuse, or simply the wherewithal to flee. But she had--

(No.)

\--blanked. When she should have said--

"No?"

Instead of--

( _The softness of those lips._ )

\--allowing Cosima to get close. 

But she’d been gripped by blind panic. Sheer panic. Nothing else. Even as she’d darted into the hall.

(Wearing red wine on her lips.)

_"It's okay."_

(Had it been? Would it be?)

Delphine snatched up the pen. 

(Yes. No. She would just have to make it okay.)

*

_Subject made a pass at me._

_Disengaged, assured subject all was well, and departed._

_Uncertain if this marks progress or a setback._

_Will proceed more cautiously going forward._

[end entry]


End file.
